Round 1 Part A- Gisela

[Solar Haven]

Begins March the 8th at 12:01 am EST. The fight ends March the 23rd at 12:01 am EST.

Participants: Ozoric vs Tobias Stalt

[Ozoric]

Prologue

Ozoric Newalla drained a nervous glass of champagne. Absent minded, drifting through cycles of nerves and perfect clarity, he began to refill it immediately. The sparkling liquid was the finest Eiskalt had to offer, or so told. He tasted it as though it were fine champagne gingerly. He strong suspected that to the citizens of this new land, it was no more than barrel-scraped wine.

“Do you have a plan of action, Commander?” he enquired lazily.

The Drakengard camp’s heart was a square tent of council. Around its gnarled oak table, carried as ritual and symbol to these new lands, the dragoon command waited patiently. Jacamar lounged over a fur-lined chair deep in thought. Eternally wearing her armour, the woman was an indomitable, impregnable fortress of mystery. She gave nothing away.

“There is no way this ‘Order’ can approach the castle in number without travelling through the pass.” The statement immediately made sense to Ozoric. The five knights: the Valakut remained unconvinced.

“Why are we not scouting, determining numbers - making harrier attacks against their advance forces?” One of the more experienced members of the dragoon, Magnusson, remained irate. He downed his flagon of beer gluttonously.

“Who are you to question the Knight-Commander?” Sisal sniped. The sorcerer emerged from the edge of the tent wreathed in violet flame. Smouldering, she sat at her chair. The emergence of the woman from the shadows made all bar Ozoric nervous.

“You ingrate!” Before he could throw his tankard, Jacamar raised a delicate, authoritarian palm and silenced the room. “Forgive me,” Magnusson conceded, sinking into his chair like a cowering dog.

“We have implicit instructions from the Ixian Knights. Those instructions complement our own objectives. Our losses must be minimal. No dragon shall fall. No battle lost. We engage only when tactically we cannot lose.”

The mood in the tent lightened. Ozoric stared pensive at the map of the Corone Mountains set into the tabletop. Gold leaves served as accent to the hundred-year-old piece of art. Guards arrayed chests and smaller ottomans about the room’s edges. Spices and herbs on hand to treat wounds and soothe the intuitive relation between dragon and rider. Incense smouldered by the entrance, inviting mysticism into a chamber steeped in rhetoric.

“We expect heavy resistance, then?” Aelfric pressed. The titan of a captain stood arms folded by the door. He served as a guard, as much as a voice of reason between the troops sent in the defence of the land of Eiskalt, and the dragoons sent in defence of its skies. He did not mean to sound doubtful, but Jacamar took his tone to mean such.

“There is always resistance Captain Aelfric.” She rose from her seat, soliciting the other members of the council, bar Ozoric, to rise in her honour. She smiled at the youth coyly, recognising his gall.

“Is there?” Aelfric challenged.

“The only difference between our conflicts home and our presence here is that our enemy hates us purely for our affiliations. Remember that, and we will succeed.” Continuing her lecture, she circled the table.

Ozoric gestured to Aelfric to leave, and as the captain ducked out of the red cloth flaps, he addressed the council as an equal. The darkness of the room allayed his pallid expression. His tattoos glowed like embers in a dying hearth.

“I will await further instruction.” He nodded to the five elders, and made a surreptitious gesture at the sorcerer. “Excuse me. I must marshal the wyvern riders through another low-atmosphere flight.” They let him depart sans hindrance.

Ozoric stepped out into the soft sunlight and felt the temperature drop. A light sprinkling of snow covered every surface of the camp, save for the thoroughfares of footprints. The exodus of men turned snow into puddles and soil into mud. Side by side, Aelfric and Ozoric trudged towards the proving grounds to commence their afternoon duties free of maddening hierarchy.

“Those backward oafs will be the ruin of us, come winter’s end,” Aelfric spat. Ozoric looked to the captain in surprise. “Don’t you think?”

“Watch your tongue,” was the wine-addled reply. He sputtered. “Apologies.” His hand reached instinctively for his water skin, to counter-act the dizziness and flights of fancy. “I did not expect you to voice such haughty concern to the Knight-Commander.”

“We usually see eye to eye,” Aelfric chuckled. They turned left past the mess tent. It looked like a dragon’s skull, breathing fire of noodle steam and chicken fumes, and headed east. A large fenced paddock littered with bones, carcass, and broken armour loomed.

“Yet you have taken every opportunity to drive a wedge between Jacamar and the elders.” The lancer frowned. He tried many times to divine the captain’s motives but always fell short of the truth. Pressing his hand against the gate’s latch.

“When we put our plan into practice I will either be vindicated or made the fool.” Heaving himself free of his cloak and hauberk, Aelfric readied himself for putting dragoons through their paces until long after dusk.

“Wyvern brigade, fall in!” Ozoric roared as he vaulted the fence. His battered leather boots slammed into the mud. The red leather of his uniform shone with summer’s end fire as he waded towards the bestial unit.

[Tobias Stalt]

Beachhead, Island of Eiskalt, 23:50

"Look alive, you gutless bastards!" The obnoxious, guttural outcry sent a wave over the amassed troops as hundreds of men snapped to attention as one. Valius Ormand was a lithe, dark creature with regal features and orbs black as night in place of eyes. Ornate plate covered all but his face, as though all his body were made of metal. Presiding over an indignant clergy, the elf was a monstrous minister. "There's been a call for mobilization," he told his men, "an enemy has come upon what we have sought to take."

Silence swept across the men as seconds ticked by, and Valius nodded his approval. "Several teams have been dispatched preemptively," he continued, "and their efforts will coordinate with our own in hopes of quelling this new threat decisively." He glanced toward the icy ridges that surrounded Eiskalt, a grim satisfaction lay on his lips leeringly. "Are you ready to rain hell on some interlopers, men?"

A chorus of approval echoed through the mountains, and Valius drank in the cheers of his men. At his side, the young Captain Tobias Stalt stood with arms folded. "You sent Outriders to the points I specified, I expect?" There was a demand in the youth's voice that the Elf did not like, and Tobias caught the ire in his expression. He did not rise to the intimidation.

"Yes, young master Stalt," the elder soldier replied in a diminishing tone, "your input has proven as valuable as the council believed. For now." Stygian globes crept over the young human, and Ormand sought any evidence that he had pierced the thick skin of his fledgling tactician. He was almost disappointed that he had not. "They have been deployed for several tolls of the bell," Valius continued, "your detailed report dictates that at least two of them should have already arrived and set about their grim business."

"Let us hope," Tobias smirked, "that they are a diligent lot." The Captain took no shortage of pride in the grimace that danced across Valius' visage.

Island of Eiskalt, mouth of the Stahl gate closest the castle, 00:50

"Quiet, you buffoon," the hiss of an Elven voice rattled through the darkness, "place the damned charges and let's be off." Chatu had always been impatient, but on such dangerous missions he became doubly so. The chirp and hiss of his Scaleback mount was the best comfort he had. From where he sat, there was a very clear view of the fires within the castle. "Easy, Architroph," he ran a comforting hand along the beast's neck, then stared daggers toward his Dwarven companion.

Hammerblows on the steel sheets he had fused to the rock of the mountain above the Stahl gate resounded in Horace's ears. When Chatu chided him, the Dwarf stared back at the Elf with hatred in his eyes. "Ye cannae rush proper explosives, laddie," the plump midget replied, "especially if they're to be invisible to the eye."

"Invisible my dark arse," the elf spat, "it's a fuckin' eyesore, it is."

"Not from afar," Horace smiled with pride swollen in his chest. "They won't see a bloody thing." Putting the final touches on the detonation mechanism, the engineer smiled triumphantly up at his lanky cohort. Chatu snorted. "Ye got no appreciation for the finer art of "boom."

"And you're a pyromaniac," the elf shrugged. A trademark laugh came as the only response, and Chatu felt a chill run down his spine. "Let's get the hell out of here," he hissed, "I don't want to be anywhere nearby when that fucker blows."

"Awww!" Horace protested, "but I wanted to watch the fireworks!"

Annoyed, Chatu gripped the collar of the Dwarf's jerkin and dragged the diminutive man onto Architroph's saddle. "Gi-yup," he crooned. The reptilian beast broke into a fast pace climb along the rocky terrain.

A cave near the peak of a mountain, designate "the Hawk's Nest," 07:00 (Dawn)

Cordian Saville stared down toward the frigid wastes that made up the country of Eiskalt. If not for Titanium, the Alerian sniper corps would never have had to squander their skills in a place like this. His title in many circles was "the Eagle of Alerar," and his aim was legendary. Cordian calibrated the scope on his flintlock rifle, and he thumbed several rounds that glowed with eldritch light into the chamber. "Stalt," he spoke into a short frequency transceiver, a device developed specifically for reconnaissance and communication at range (ah, Alerian ingenuity) and reached the man tasked with coordinating the defense. "I have eyes on the opposing force. They appear to be... Coronian. I see," Cordian stopped, eyes frozen on the beast that rose toward the firmament. "Bloody hell..."

"What is it?" Came the muffled reply, Tobias' voice riddled with concern. "What do you see, Cordian?"

"There be Dragons," came the hushed reply, and Saville cocked the weapon purposefully. It had been the dream of a young Cordian to hunt and kill a dragon; Coronian or no, his chance was at hand. "Sniper corps, hop to," he called over his shoulder. Several irritated voices shot back, but he silenced them with five words. "We're going to kill Dragons."

Beachhead, Island of Eiskalt, 07:25

He threw down the transceiver with an exasperated yell. "Damn it all," the Captain glanced up at the eyes that had turned toward him, and he threw up his hand. "Position yourselves at the outer mouth of the Stahl gate," he called out, "when the enemy contingent takes their bait, you'll be heroes."

Tobias almost felt bad about not telling them their accolades would likely be gotten post mortem.

Fifty men were all of the 908th positioned at the Stahl gate, and they thought Tobias a madman. "How are we to hold against a full force?" One voice came, and several others chimed in.

"Belay that!" Valius' voice quelled all dissension, and ragged breathing replaced worried whispers. Ormand stood at the side of the men, closing his eyes and waiting. Dragons, Tobias had told him. In spite of probable death, Valius would not allow the line to break. No, it could not come to that.

Island of Eiskalt, barrier mountain range nearby the outer mouth of the Stahl gate, 07:50

Torix Bladeback sat astride his black Scaleback. The blood colored scar that streaked it's side looked like warpaint. He stared skyward, and the malevolent elf held his tomahawk in hand and chiseled at his overgrown fingernails. The news of Dragons had traveled fast. "Sky lizards," the throaty voice of Bladeback rumbled like laughter, his malicious crimson gaze scouring for prey. "You're going to kill a sky lizard, my sweet. You and I," he told the beast beneath him, and a gargled response sounded almost appreciative. "We will show them the power of our bond."

Torix slowly measured out several feet of rope from his kitbag. "Our Pack is fierce," he called out, and the rattled cries from a chorus of Scalebacks resounded in reply. "Our Pack is unrelenting!" Spittle splattered from his zealous maw as a dire litany flowed from him, and the Outriders sang their song of destruction to the world.

Soon, Torix would show Eiskalt the fury of the Outrider Pack. "We are desolation," Torix muttered reverently, as though he praised a violent god before battle. Furs and scraps lined his frame, lithe and muscular. Dried blood had ruined the appearance of his primal armor, and hollowed heads hung from his waist. "Glory to Alerar!"

Inhuman screams echoed through the mountains. The drums of war had begun their beating. From where he sat, Torix awaited the first of his many kills to come. Threading the rope expertly in hand, the Dark Elf smirked. "Remain hidden, my Pack," he instructed, "we will strike soon."

Hidden tunnel, approaching Eiskalt from the rear, 06:50

Throatcutter had never been one for the front lines. Moving through tunnels toward an unknown kingdom to wage war was the last thing he had ever hoped to do. Conscription had saved him from the gallows, but he often wondered what fate was waiting for him. Now he knew. "Why are we going to war?"

"Shut up, Cut," Bleeder spat. He was a gaunt fellow with dark bags beneath his eyes, and by now well along in his years. "Word has it there's metal in these hills," the older soldier told him, "and that's worth dying for. The Guilds think so, anyway. That's all that we need to know."

"I don't want to die," Throatcutter stated.

"Most folks don't," Bleeder consoled the youth. "But we're soldiers, lad."

They marched through the hidden cavern with little further conversation. Dimly lit by the sun as it leaked through the far side, the tunnel was cramped for the small group of men. None of them complained about that, though. "Why aren't we outfitted?" Tits, they called her, seemed irate.

"We're supposed to appear as citizens," Bleeder explained. "The enemy force will be prepared for armored soldiers. This way, we have a much better chance of killing a few before we end up dead."

Prospero Company were the misfits of the 908th. Trained and skilled as they were, the Marines could not face an entire army on their own. Instead, they appeared as vineyard tenders armed with concealed weapons and terrible fashion sense. Tits could not help but abhor the garb they had chosen for her. "You could have at least let me cover up more," she complained, "it's piking cold here."

"Aye," Bleeder smirked, "that's why they gave you that shirt."

The girl blushed, and she covered her chest. Laughter rippled through the men, but it ceased when Throatcutter called back, "I can see the castle!" One after the other clambered to his side, and they stared out at the frozen world below them. "Well," he said with a smile, "it looks like we're going to be busy."

[Ozoric]

Drakengard Camp

Darkness. Light. Darkness. Days melding into one in a tapestry of uncertainty, stitched with tense thread and uneasy artistry. Drills, dancing, and dinners were the order of each day: dusted with responsibility and duty. The drudgery of military ritual was dangerous dull. Ozoric knew it all too well. By the fourth sunrise, however, and through its delicate dawn it all paid off.

He did not know how he made it from the wyvern paddock to the Knight-Commander’s tent so quickly. The snow, continuing its thaw, made the path sluice like and perilous. Greased by the inhospitable ire of Eiskalt, Jacamar got a rude awakening.

“What is the meaning of this, Ozoric?” she barked at him as he entered. He slipped in through the port unannounced. He was hours early for the morning briefing.

The tent was cold, dark, and dreary. Jacamar’s stare gave it fire, warmth, and wonder. Seated at the opposite side of the war table, she set down a parchment; some untellable report or other, and waited expectantly for an explanation. He was panting so heavily she had to wait a split-second too long.

“I asked for an e-”

“Enemy sighted in the crags above the colonnade tunnels!”

There were only two times in the career of Knight-Commander Jacamar that Ozoric had surprised her. The first, dutiful dealing with dragoons deranged, and now this. She set the scroll down, logistics lounging in her mind for a second before fading into insignificance. Her bulwark figure, lithe compared to her colleagues, but imposing to Ozoric’s lanky frame rose daringly.

“Report, Lancer Newalla,” she said softly. Her charisma served as a whip, her calm, placid expression an incentive irresistible.

Ozoric crossed the room to table’s edge. He leant against its walnut embrace, and found comfort in old ground. His chest, pounded by exertion, felt tight and tempestuous. Muscles ached. Heart screamed wild. Head throbbed.

“Specialist troops tampering with the land. Phalanx broad daylight marching to the city. They have troops in, and out the walls. Stahl gate is…,” he trailed off into confused silence. His report seemed perfectly clear, as he had formulated it. Speaking the words oft-obfuscated matters. He frowned, tattoos warping into twisted ironies and mockeries of the draconic tongue.

Jacamar circled towards him in a clockwise direction. Her simple blouse, breeches, and heavy leather boots far removed from the armour she lived in turtle-like. Pressing a hand delicately on his shoulder; alms to his panicking arias, she waited for his anxiety to ease.

“Stahl gate is what?”

“All but undefended, Knight-Commander.” His duty had brought him to the tent, his report to the fight proper. No more idly standing by in drill and lectures on morals and maladies. No illness now, save war herself, could allay the flight of the dragons.

“All but?” she pressed. She walked around him and circled back to her seat. Incense smoke swirled in her wake, lingering in the atmosphere since the evening’s evensong. Eventually, it would clear, only refreshed by another day’s delegation and debate.

The scout told Aelfric, and Aelfric Ozoric of no more than five tens. Beleaguered, the lot of them. Untalented and scruffy ‘soldiers’ at best. Orders seemed to tell of last stands or traps, and Ozoric had to agree this seemed suspicious. If troops made it over the mountains and deep into Eiskalt…why protect a beachhead unrequired?

“Fifty at most.” He ruffled his fringe, and then swept it charismatically to the left. He straightened with a stomp of his right foot and a salute. Back snapped. Spine alert. Heart proud and rumbustious with servitude, honour, and obedience.

“Wyvern riders…send them to the gate to support the garrisoned troops there. It is clearly a trap.” She waved a knowing finger, encouraging Ozoric to remember this wisely. “The first sign of deception or trouble Lancer Newalla I want them retreated. Abandon the Stahl gate the moment the fight evens in their favour.”

Ozoric did not need telling twice. She nodded; he burst into another inhuman run and streamed across camp. Sabatons flaring with enchanted power, the youth leapt across tents. To free himself from the land’s lethargy he took to the sky whenever he could. Bereft of his own mount, he used wind to warm his ailing limbs and make quick time towards the wyverns.

“Riders!” the youth roared. His lineage convection beat back the cold. “Fall out!”

Screams thrice excited: battle, freedom, and feasting rose the camp and all those in it to the beginning of the war proper. Whilst treachery was certainly afoot, no true dragoon ever waited for war to come to his walls when liberty was the spoil.

[Tobias Stalt]

Stahl gate pass, approximate 08:00

Grim footfalls filled the air with a morose war song, even as the sun peeked through the ridges above. Alert, Valius' edged ears twitched with anticipation. Fifty men marched for the inner plains of Eiskalt, surrounded on all sides by frigid rock and ever present danger. "Steady march," the commander murmured, "keep your wits about you, and your arms ready."

With a sour look on his face, the others decided from looking at Ormand that the battle to come would be a bloody one. He kept to himself the dark truth of it: these men were bait. More, he disliked Tobias taking liberties with the lives of any Alerian soldier, let alone tens or hundreds. "Don't fret," he had been assured, "I am not intentionally sending them to slaughter. Have some faith, Valius."

Still, the veteran was beside himself. The Orders had been sealed and distributed by Tobias himself. General information on strategic points and troop allocations remained common knowledge, but the active placements of the Alerian forces were Tobias' best kept secret. If they were captured and shaken down for information, the enemy would gain nothing from them. "Nothing but tools," Valius muttered discontentedly.

"Sir?" A younger elf turned his gaze toward the commander, who smiled reassuringly toward him. "Tools? What are you talking about?"

"Best not to know, son," the grizzled warrior took a measured breath and composed himself. It did not do to let his men see him so. "Follow the orders when they're given. I will do my damnedest to see you from this frostbitten hell alive." It was the most honest and heartfelt thing he could offer, but the troops seemed to relax as a wave of relief rippled through them. The consensus of "aye, sir!" echoed back to him, and Valius Ormand smiled. It felt good to be admired by his men.

The distance to the Plains was less than two hours march as the crow flew, but their pace kept them to about half of that efficiency. Valius was instructed to "be in no rush" in his approach. His gut told him Tobias could be trusted, but his mind screamed that the boy was too green. Valius knew better, however, than to let his elven elitism sway his judgment.

The lives of fifty men were in the hands of a barely trained strategist. "Fifty one," Valius chuckled, shaking his head. "I make fifty one." The laughter was lighthearted at last, and it rippled outward through the men who marched at his side. They could not know the joke, but it seemed to comfort them no less.

On the horizon, a castle stretched skyward through two pillars of rock to either side. Frosted plans stretched across the expanse between them, and Valius made out the shapes of soldiers lazily amassed in defensive positions. "Present arms," Ormand bellowed, his own blade ringing out loudly as it slid from his waist. "Make ready, men; this day, we fight for glory."

When no reply came, the elder elf smirked. "Ah," he offered in reply, but no other words suited it. His men had realized the uselessness of glory, and the emptiness it held in promises. They looked to him for direction; he stared forward into adversity as it glided in, on the wings of Wyverns.

Eiskalt, snow covered fields, 08:50

Prospero had descended quickly into the heart of Eiskalt, and just as quickly, they had dispersed. Despite constant protests from several senior members of the unit, Tits had commandeered an extra cloak to cover her hardened nipples. Silk was notoriously comfortable, but it did little to keep the cold out. In the end, she had made her case by reminding them that it might be suspect for her to be dressed strangely for the local climate. The saucy lass jiggled triumphantly despite her layers, and nary a soul objected.

As a homely young lady, Sasha had not attracted the attention of many men back in Ettermire. Her dreams to see the world from the side of a loving husband had been shattered when she enlisted with hopes of finding a decent man. Jaded by the reality that good men no longer frequented any place she set foot, she welcomed the moniker "Tits" and the attentions of the bad men who had given it to her.

Auburn hair braided neatly down her back swayed with every step she took, and her azure eyes sparkled in fascination. She stooped in the snow to pick a berry, ever fascinated by the beauties of a world beyond Alerar. Sasha could have let herself forget the instructions that handsome Stalt fellow had given her. It would have been so easy to walk away from it all, and to start a new life in Eiskalt.

Sasha popped the berry into her mouth, and her face contorted at the utter sweetness of it. "Hells bells!" The cry was accompanied by wad of spittle, and any pretense of ladylike activity went winging away. She could see the encampment from where she stood, brushing the messy bangs from her face. "Hope the rest of you sods can pull this off without feminine charm," she chuckled, offering the closest thing to warm regards she had to offer her brothers-at-arms.

Elsewhere on the Plains, concurrent.

With a wine skin slung over his shoulder and a large assortment of food products he had "liberated" from locals, Throatcutter plodded down the path toward the Coronian encampment. The job was supposed to be an easy one, though he questioned the logic of the man who had dreamed it up. Bleeder had always been something of a psychopath when it came to subtlety.

It would be easy enough to pass himself off as a local, offering food to his beloved defenders. The tasteless, odorless poison that had been added to both the wine and food was slow acting enough that he could partake of it himself, only to begin suffering once they had been lulled into believing it safe. Of course, that was the contingency should they ask him to try the food to ensure it was edible. It was a risk that Bleeder had been all too eager to take. "The hells take that old bastard," Cut grumbled, not completely convinced he would survive the day.

There was a good mile between him and the camp, and the sight of a Wyvern taking to the sky stopped him short. "Shit," he cursed softly. "The enemy is Coronian." Though he may have been the last to know, Throatcutter was the first to genuinely have reservations about the concept of war with Corone. Alerar had interest in Eiskalt for its resources; what could Corone possibly gain from attempting to force them back?

Further, Corone and Alerar had a treaty. The implications of this battle were greater than the meager might of dragons. Swallowing the dryness in his throat, Cut renewed his stride. Beasts of flame flying over wintery fields. If he did live, Sebastien Martez would have one hell of a story to tell his grandchildren.

"Maybe the Thayne will smile on me today," he thought aloud. He had never been a religious man, but the idea that some all powerful deity might throw some intervention his way certainly seemed appealing. His footsteps crunched in the cold, and he watched steam billow from his lips as he exhaled forcefully. "That's a boy, Seb. Just a mile away, now..."

Hellfire Encampment, Southern Mountains, 10:00

From where they stood with their telescopic lenses, the Dwarven Engineers of Hellfire Company had a perfect vantage point overlooking the Stahl gate. Several trips through the rugged mountains astride Scalebacks notwithstanding, it had been an uneventful occupation. Secluded enough from the battlefield where they could arm and detonate the explosives remotely, they had also been sure to remain mostly hidden. Eyes from the sky would have difficulty spotting them unless they came extremely close.

But Hellfire had prepared a contingency for that, as well. The call of "Dragons" from Stalt had been disturbing, but Ramand Quells the Engineer Princeps had wasted no time readying his counter-aerial offensive. Several smaller positions along the western mountain had been scouted by Outriders, and other members of Hellfire had been stationed at those points and tasked with setting up mobile precision cannons. Of course, the process took time.

The buzzing of feedback across the frequency alerted the Princeps to an incoming message. "Quells, Battery Bravo is operational." The gruff, stern looking Dwarf squinted toward the gate, and slightly further to to the northwest. A faint flicker of light came from the ridges, signaling that Bravo had made his deadline. Quells replied with satisfaction, "aye, I can see ye, Marty. Jes' be certain ye remember to keep yer eyes on the sky."

Quells glanced over the precision cannon before him in appreciation. Glistening steel that rotated on a small base, the weapon was easy to maneuver and considerably light. The ammunition it used was dense, an expensive round of titanium meant for piercing heavy armor at great distances. It had been field tested tested a handful of times in Alerar, but remained largely secret outside the military.

The time had come, Ramand had said, for an unveiling.

"Princeps," a deeper, hearty voice resounded next to him, and Quells blinked. "Enemy force en route to the Stahl gate. Estimate time of arrival in ten minutes at present speed and course."

"Make ready, lads," the Princeps instructed gleefully. "Fire and brimstone."

Orman's contingent, 10:05

At the sight of Wyverns, there were several confused cries. "Quiet, fellows," Valius hushed them. "Complaints aren't going to stop them. Make ready to hold. Phalanx tactics- shoulder to shoulder with the man next to you. Build a wall, keep moving forward. Force them in close."

This time when there was no reply, Valius called out loudly. "Am I understood?" The Dark Elf smirked at his answer; fifty blades wailing as one chorus.


Valius Ormand's unit advances toward the Stahl gate garrison.

[Ozoric]

Stahl Gate

Though they were not dragons, a wyvern was just as deadly. Swift to anger, lightning quick, and full of rage. When they landed on the eastern flank of the advancing phalanx all thoughts of an idle war fled the minds of beast and banner man alike.

“Rend and route!” cried their captain.

A wind rolled east, along with wing beats and wild wraths. Claws on wing tips lashed, slashed, and crashed. Careful shields rebuked the talentless tirade, undulating with fear and fervour and finesse. After a few, short, restless seconds the wyverns all leapt skyward.

Pounding silence. Darkened skies.

“Descend and drive!” came the second command.

Tactics were rare in the lower echelons of the Drakengard’s immense military hierarchy. As a proving ground on the path to becoming a dragoon, a wyvern rider had to learn those few, sparkling diamonds amongst mud and shite to perfect the art of aerial combat.

The beleaguered troops below analysed and anticipated. They traced the strange curvature of a wyvern’s spine and the long lashing tail. A quiver brought spikes raining down harmlessly against the bulwark of their shields. There was laughter, cajoling, and triumphant cries raised in response.

Snowfall thundered as the wyverns circled and then dropped. Each drove the claws on wing tip forward as though reaching for an elusive prize. The riders, clad in light mail and wearing red sabatons with winged insignia showed nought but zeal on their youthful faces. Swords lashed. Claws crashed. Prey launched. The wyverns did as told and routed. They scattered to the skies, the grey fade of the winter’s turn obfuscating their retreat.

The casualties were minuscule. Four soldiers, perhaps still alive as they dropped from bewildering heights. One wyvern rider: a wound to the shoulder venting blood like air from a perforated lung. Soon, he would be lain low behind the gate. Soon, his mount painted black and red would be set free to the world’s ebb and flow. It was a loss acceptable, but too many: disaster.

Before the snow could settle and the cries of dying men could fade the brigade landed behind the safety of the gate. A pallid figure emerged as welcoming party.

“I trust it went well?”

The captain dismounted like a meteor, armour driving his feet into the softened earth. He turned, pulled free his helmet, and swung his head to free his flaxen locks. He was, in Ozoric’s estimation, as charismatic as they came.

“They will think us weak, foolish, and overconfident Lord Newalla.” A coy laugh filled the air as the sound of soldiers marching to the battlements became all but deafening. It was all Ozoric needed to hear.

“Excellent.”

Turning cocksure, the lancer stared at the far side of the courtyard. There, in a row of indomitable terrors, the five ancients slumbered. Their mounts were kinship brothers with beasts older than Eiskalt herself. They sharpened swords and swung lances in preparation. Ozoric smiled with swelling pride.

“Let the Ixian Knights do as they please elsewhere Captain Johan. The might of the Drakengard shall be burnt blazon in the memories of the few survivors that find fortune in failure.” He rested his hands on his hips.

“The rise of the Kings will be a sight to behold,” Johan said proudly as he began to check the tack of his mount.

“I have waited long enough to see it,” Ozoric laughed.

He ran east to the garrison’s command tent. As public face, Ozoric had much left to do to reassure the Eiskalt forces that their plan to divide and conquer was going to work.

[Tobias Stalt]

Stahl Gate

Wicked, winged beast's tore toward them, and the Phalanx locked down. Plate clanged against plate as the fast moving predators surged forward, and Valius sucked in a breath. "Gods below," he hissed. The deafening blast that came from above as the riders filed into the gate to do their worst took all of the Alerians off their guard. An inferno ripped the mountain face open on either side above the Stahl gate, and the world shook all around.

Large stones released from the craggy peaks and rained down toward the ground, precariously falling on anything that happened to be in the way. The Gate creaked under the weight of boulders bearing down on it, and an age old entrance began to crumble beneath immense weight.

The castle disappeared from view, and Eiskalt's only major mountain pass was cut off from the rest of Althanas. The small contingent of Alerian infantry held their ground shakily, presenting swords to defend against a massive onslaught. Faster, more powerful Wyverns and their riders ripped into the armored men, who rebuffed several claw and weapon strikes with less ease tan they would have liked. Swords flailed and did their damage, but when the attack ended, the group had been left in disarray.

"Status report!" The bark came from Ormand, who leaned over a critically wounded young man. Blood drooled from a gash in his shoulder, and Valius fought to assuage the bleeding. Several men barked back that they were fine, but twenty others were in similar states to the boy he was tending to. "Fucking wyverns," he snapped. "Phalanx unit, attend the disposition of the wounded. Withdraw to the beachhead, send word to Stalt that I need a word with him."

As they liked their wounds, Valius narrowed his eyes toward the ruin that had once been the Stahl gate. Stalt had planned this from the beginning. It was brilliant, and it was absolutely evil. "He's cut off an entire country from the outside world," the Elf observed. "I'm beginning to like our little tactician."

Beachhead

When the ground shook, Tobias glanced up from the map with a quiet smile. "You're far too pleased with yourself, Captain," the grating voice of a mocking Camille cooed. "The plan has ramifications. Now we can't move into Eiskalt en masse."

"We don't need to," Tobias smirked as he glanced toward the armored woman. "The only way they can get out of Eiskalt short of flight are the hidden tunnels," he told her, "and the remaining force of the 908th is positioned at each of them, barring exit. If they attempt to flee and move around the mountains to flank us, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise."

Camille stared at the Captain in disbelief. "You cut off-"

"An entire nation from the outside world, yes," he smiled, "their supplies are limited and we've spoiled their crops. Prospero Company is tasked with poisoning the enemy rations. Every single Coronian will die, and we will rush to the aid of Eiskalt, offering good food, drink and rebuilding to a people in their greatest hour of need."

"That's evil, Tobias," she chided him.

"Not evil," he replied, "necessary. They stand between Alerar and it's spoils. Their defiance is an act of war, and I will not suffer dissension."

Supply Caravan approaching Drakengard camp from the Castle

Throatcutter had assimilated with relative ease into the small group of thankful Eiskaltians who were headed to resupply the Drakengard. A few careless slips of the hand had applied the sinister toxin to the foodstuffs and drink, and no one had so much as glanced his way. The pitch of the small wagon as it hobbled as long bumpy road churned his stomach, and Cut leaned out the back to vomit. "Ugh, I hate motion sickness," he complained, and he noticed several younger girls who chuckled at him.

"Erm, well, hello ladies," he faltered, attempting to mask his embarrassment. It was simple enough to hide his heritage and accent- he was a mutt, some manner of Salvic. This close to Salvar, it would go unquestioned even if it were conspicuous. The women whispered amongst themselves and giggled, and Cut smiled. "This isn't so bad," he muttered.

It was then that the Caravan ground to a halt.

Eiskalt, crops

Bleeder had been a farmer, once. Before the taint of machinery had spread to almost every corner of Alerar, he had been beside a wife and two sons. They tended the fields and cared for crops, until the day that the Elves had moved in and offered his sons a king's ransom to join the war effort. Fond memories of those days swelled in his heart as he tilled the frosty soil, pulling icy death from the plants.

It was a tragedy to sully such beautiful berries. He reflected on the wines he had sold in younger years, the rich tastes almost on his tongue. Several other members of Prospero added their vile substance to the soil, and Bleeder fell into step. He would have preferred a direct approach, slitting a commander's throat and dying in the process. Going to the halls of hell to see his sons again was like a dream.

He would have his chance to die. Tobias had promised, once they had forcibly routed the enemy, he could have anything he wanted. Bleeder had in mind to ask the boy to end it. "Days like this remind me of winter back home," he said offhandedly, though no one was listening. "I wonder if Tricia would have liked this place. We could have retired here."

The thought hung on the air for a minute, and his withered smile died with the memory. Several hours had passed since they had slipped virtually undetected into the population, and they had gone straight to work as though nothing were wrong. Eiskalt was a land of people trained for war, so it was not unusual for work to continue as necessary in the fields.

When the blast came, everyone glanced up toward the Stahl gate. "Well, I'll be damned," Bleeder muttered. "That probably don't happen too often..."

The smell of sweetness wafted from the berry crop, and as the men reaped the harvest, they added the touch of Alerar's alchemists. The warmth of sunlight was like a blessing over the frozen fields. Tools rose and fell in rhythmic measure as the farmers hummed their daily toil, mostly disinterested in the explosion. "We'll just have to sort that out later," came one voice. Another, "the crops can't be left unattended. They'll die if not harvested now."

"They'll die anyway," Bleeder muttered, but he remained far enough away to go unheard.

Mountains above the Stahl gate pass

Torix stared down in disgust at the mangled scene, blood eyes burning with hatred. "Filthy human throwing Infantry to slaughter," he murmured in a low voice. Spinning the hand axe deftly, he ran the edge along a leather laden finger and licked at the slick of blood that welled up. "The Outriders will drink from enemy skulls tonight," he vowed solemnly.

Beneath the malign elf, the Scaleback hissed it's discontent at the shaking of the mountains. Claws dug into rock to help maintain balance. Several silver haired elves astride Scalebacks also watched as Wyverns slammed into a wall of soldiers, even as the pass caved in on them. "The battle is in the skies, now," Torix called back to his men. Several bestial roars came in answer.

"Bring your sky lizards, Coronians," Bladeback jeered. "I welcome a new cloak."

[Ozoric]

Drakengard Camp

“We are not alone sister.” The voice of a sorcerer, one-half of a furnace whole scintillated through the tent. A man rose from a mound of sheepskin and satin cushions resplendent.

“We never are, brother. Or do you have some idle notion of danger to share?”

Sisal and Glum possessed a potent gift: oramancy. The sight of an item’s history, a place’s story, a person’s malady through touch. Ever since they had arrived on the back of Kurradion, the Eldest, they had revelled in the aeons of ancestral recall Eiskalt had offered.

Tired, lonely, and weary the siblings had retreated. Whilst drills went on outside all hours, the duo remained in the sanctuary of their tent in bridling contempt for the waste of such – or so they perceived – monumental talent.

“Can you feel it not?” Glum threw doubt like torchlight in shadows. Sisal’s face, a pallid reflection of his own remained placid and emotionless. She could feel nothing unusual. He felt it, clear as day. Jittery roils of tension down his spine.

“It would be better if you showed me.” Rising with effort, she crossed the red velvet and held out a spectral limb. Her skeletal fingers drained of strength by her reliance on magic longing for connectivity.

The twins fell from the world. In the in-between place, they saw the land as it was but feet beyond the wall of their sanctuary. Like an eagle’s gaze, they soared skyward and saw what assailed them. A caravan. Unwelcome. The eagle hauntingly cried, and then dove to the ground and blackness.

“Danger indeed,” Sisal whispered. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, ghostly orbs of portent. “They should not be here.” She hissed. “The dragons will spook.”

Before she could object Glum was away and dragging her with him. His grey coverings flapped in the cool breeze as they launched out into the open. It took only a minute to reach Kurradion, mount the platform the beast allowed on his back, and take to the sky.

Stahl Gate

Waiting patiently at the flank of the eldest Valakut, Ozoric revised the battle plan based on the constant stream of information he received from note, messenger’s mouth, and reading of runes. In mere seconds, the strongest of the dragoon order would take flight and devastate the enemy.

“May wings give flight to victory Lancer.” The Mistral: blessing of the Valakut served to calm Magnusson’s nerves.

He looked down from his throne of bone, scale, and blood like a haughty god. With armour as thick as walls, and a lance enchanted to fall as hard as a comet, the man’s voice was overwhelming.

One beat.

Two beat.

Dragon flight.

[Tobias Stalt]

Midday, First Day of the Assault on Eiskalt

It could not be helped now. At the blast that had leveled Stahl gate, the Alerian force had gained the ire of Eiskalt. Though it pained them to know that recovering their friendship would be difficult, it was both prudent and necessary to expunge the Drakengard forces prior to any agreement. With the enigmatic dragon riding legion in their way, it would be impossible to sink the claws of economic exchange into the diminutive nation.

Tobias sat over the map of Eiskalt with his head in both hands, clearly frustrated. "Here was a force I was not anticipating," he huffed, moving a small, ornate figurine in draconic shape onto his projection of the battlefield. "Shameful that I have to work with such a small force, since I now must face monsters far more perilous than men..."

He was no master of divination, nor did magic have any sway over Tobias. His gifts were born talent and training, and his men were soldiers of Alerar. When Ormand had marched into his tent and threatened his life, Tobias had held his composure well enough. The news that nearly half of the small force sent into the Stahl gate had been routed weighed more heavily on his shoulders than he allowed to show. Alas, Tobias did not have the luxury of second guessing his allegiances or directions.

He had ordered the medics on hand to tend the wounded, and he had seen the two men who had died given a proper burial. Rising from his seat, Tobias handed the written orders of dismissal for the weakened members of the 408th to a despondent Camille, who pointedly said nothing to him. The weight of such sacrifice showed in his grim demeanor, though he persevered through the desire to back down. "We have a mission," he told Valius as the man stared unrelenting into his eyes, "and I am sorry that lives were lost. But this is the cost of war." He said it more to himself than the Elf, but the dark eyed commander only offered a nod.

"You are learning, Stalt. This is the weight of leadership." A gauntlet clapped the young tactician on the shoulder, and Valius turned on his heel to leave the command tent. "A word of advice, though," he called back. "If you're going to make a move like that, let your men know beforehand. Their trust in you must be infallible."

Tobias hardened his gaze on Ormand's back as the man slipped from the tent. All of the classes on theory and application could never have prepared him for this. Experience was the only teacher, and she was often more harsh than necessary. Tobias took his radio in hand, and he tuned it for the Outriders' frequency. "Torix," the youth calmly called, "your Brothers are free to act as you deem fit. Do not harm any citizen of Eiskalt. The Drakengard forces are fair game."

Nearby the Ruin of Stahl gate, hidden in the mountains

Wretched black lips twisted into a cruel smile as the dark haired monstrosity stared down the beast that took to the skies. "You are mine, winged one," he promised the ancient beast that soared on the winds. Torix tossed the radio callously back to one of the other elves; he would have no further need of communications with command. Now that he had leave to join the battle proper, the Priest of Ruin stared down his quarry in unabashed delight. "Dragon blood is a delicacy untasted by our brethren in thousands of years," he preached to those who had gathered, the ones who would listen. A litany of prayers poured from their lips, like tears from a weeping child. Torix tilted his gaze skyward, and his eyes rolled back in supplication as faith roiled through him and set his bones shivering. "Our Coven shall drink again, and we shall have our faith rewarded!"

Blood boiled in his bones at the sound of a distant roar, and Torix licked his lips longingly. The brutal elf rose in the stirrups of his Scaleback's saddle, raising his Ebon tomahawk toward the darkened sky. Chill winds howled through the mountain pass and swallowed their chanting, but in an eerie way, the mountains took their prayers to new heights. The sky had been a thousand years without an Elf to Lord over it, and the Priesthood of Ruination had ever sought to give supremacy to their lizardkin. Scalebacks were revered not as mounts, but as equal members of the Pack. A gentle hand brushing along the neck of the scar-streaked beast he rode brought forth a hellish growl, and Torix felt their connection more strongly than ever. "You thirst for the Old One's blood too, Scar?" His almost loving voice was soft in the Scaleback's ear, and the beast leered toward the horizon in anticipation.

"They will not rob us of our destiny this day," Torix slowly brought the small axe to his side, narrowing his gaze on the monstrous drake. The sound of loud gunfire burst through the mountain range, once, then twice, and a third time. His smile broadened as the delicious sound of death rang in his ears. Small shots from gearlock rifles had louder barks than some cannons, but they could have come from anywhere.

The confusion would certainly be cause for some disarray.

Catcalls rattled through the crags as Scalebacks raced to their positions, eager to taste the blood of Dragons. Torix took his place above the ruins of Stahl gate, watching stoically as the behemoth ancient hurtled toward him. Tightly he held the reins, his confidence radiating through him into Scar below. Two sets of crimson eyes settled on the dire reptile. The smile never left his face.


Torix's Outriders take positions in the ruins of Stahl gate

"Hawk's Nest"

"Suppressing fire, boys," Cordian intoned to the sharpshooters sending their regards to the Dragon. Their intention was to slay the rider, but at this distance the beast seemed the only rational target. The shot was general issue Dehlar, strong but useless for enchantments. Heavy and useful at a much shorter range than their other rounds, it would suffice for piercing armor or causing blunt damage to a supremely heavily armored opponent.

Their position was defensible on account of Cordian, who kept his rifle in reserve. Should the beast deviate in its course toward them, he would unleash the devious concoction that the alchemists had prepared for suppressing quicker moving targets. Still, he watched with supreme interest at the flight of the grandest of beasts, half sad that he would have to witness the death of a formidable prey. The hunter in him almost wept.

"Send word to Hellfire to make ready the cannons," he called to the communications officer ducked into a crag behind him. "Make sure that they're ready to clean up, should Torix fail in his..." Cordian chuckled, "righteous task."

Blink coded across the vast plains, the message sent faster than words could have travelled. They coordinated this strike in silence, Hawk's Nest acting as the foremost overlook of Eiskalt. Cordian and his fellow Rangers had devised this method with Tobias, whom they kept updated as they watched the events unfold. The castle, markedly, had sent no defensive aid to the Drakengard- irregular, given that they were usually so quick to aid in the defense of their kingdom.

It was possible, Cordian had offered as conjecture to Tobias, that the people of Eiskalt were either uncertain of who would emerge victorious. "It's more likely that they are playing a waiting game," the Tactician had told him, "in the event that one side claims victory while they are aiding the other, they could be charged with war crimes or condemned as traitors. While Eiskalt is the venue of our war, it's people are not our enemy."

Cordian had a great amount of respect for that insight. With his aim trained on the beast as it cut a swath through the air, the leader of the Sniper corps anxiously awaited the next phase.


The Sniper Corps (29 men, not counting Cordian) fire on the Dragon approaching Stahl gate from the air.

[Ozoric]

Ruins of Stahl Gate

The ruin of a man’s heart mirrored that of the Stahl Gate. Fragments ablaze. Crumbling edifices. Constructs abandoned by time. Ozoric looked up at the destroyed parapet east of where the gate once stood. A lone guard stooped beneath a tattered banner to the end. An arrow notched in his forehead, but his defiance kept him upright: the standard waving.

“I am beginning to think the Ixian Knights under estimated the Order.”

Commander Jacamar tried to conjure an encouraging response but swift failed in her mentorship. His hands nervously cradled his hips.

“What are your orders, Knight-Commander?” The youth turned to his superior. He cradled the hilt of his uneasy sword and kept his ears pricked to the smoky wind for signs that the Valakut attack was underway.

Looking east, the wisest amongst the Drakengard contemplated options. Within the armoury that was her dragon mail, she felt invincible. She longed to feel comfortable with that, given the ruination that teethed all around them. She produced a scroll dried with blood.

“Retreat to the capital as we were instructed. There, the main force will draw fire.” She smirked. Now she realised just how potent the strategies of their allies would prove to be. A delicate finger traced the rim of Eiskalt. It settled on the faded edifice of Eiskalt throne of power. “You should meet with Aelfric.”

Ozoric gave an apprehensive nod. He darted from the ruins to the waiting wyvern that would bear him east.

Plains of Stahl

Descending like meteors to the arid heath, the Valakut took fire as though they were born of it. Bullets cleaved through scale, wing, and warrior. Before they descended proper, and let lose fire immemorial, the youngest of the five lost his left arm.

“Bank left, and then divide with flame!” Magnusson roared. Through empathy and intuition, each of the Valakut heard the command and swerved. A whip of the reigns. A bond unbreakable save through death.

The shifting tides of battle changed the battle plans of the Drakengard contingent by the second. The Valakut descended onto the phalanx like hellions wreathed in hell. Four maws, thunderous and hungering unleashed magma jets. Each struck wide, but when the dragons rose from their descent, so too moved the scouring flame that arced and lashed like the devil’s whip across the snow-dusted plains.

Capital of Eiskalt, 1pm

High in the throngs of politics and pedantry, Captain Aelfric walked to and through outside the throne room. Within, the leaders of all those who had come to Eiskalt aid barked pleads and screamed their cries. Whatever they were discussing mattered not – he was here only to put forth a proposal one general in particular. He had sought council before that meeting, and spoken for an hour in confidence and preparation.

“I am doubtful of this, I have to say.” He grumbled with ardour.

The prideful Mystic took it upon himself to ease Aelfric’s suspicions.

I must go now. His words echoed in the gruff, bearded skull of the City Guard’s hero. When you enter, remember this – bringing all the forces that hate you so to this gate, here and now, will be a decisive blow to the enemy.

Aelfric nodded in agreement. Routed flank and feint attacks to draw the ‘army’ that had amassed against them seemed like a brilliant and sound tactical decision. The only problem he had, and he was sure Ozoric would echo, was that it was too obvious. He took a deep intake of air and revelled in the strange combination of incense, sweat, and desperation. The air of Eiskalt’s capital tainted with the distance fires of war.

“Thank you for your counsel, Lord Orlouge.” The captain watched the mystic return to the council chamber. “I will heed it wisely…”

Alone again, Aelfric advanced through the doors to begin the climb skyward. Thunderous steps accented his rise.

[Tobias Stalt]

Hellfire Encampment

When the Dragon descended to the remaining Phalanx, the Princeps uttered a single word. "Fire."

It was ironic in a way that drew a chuckle from the Dwarves. "Fire, he says," came one voice, "on a Dragon. That's cute."

"Did I stammer, Stanley?" The communications officer stifled another laugh, and he relayed the order to open fire to the artillery that had been mounted across the barrier range. Quick flashes of light came before the thunderous report of three cannons, trained skillfully just above the Dragon and it's Rider rising into the skies, to improve the odds of making their mark.

Titanium rounds surged through the air, and screamed promises of death as they hurtled toward the Valakut at tremendous speed.


Cannon fire (4 cannons) begins on the Valakut.

Ruins of Stahl gate

Abject disdain tore through Torix at the realization he had been robbed of his prize. Gunfire rained from the heavens, and now the beast had gone winging away. A heart wrenching scream ripped free from the feral elf's throat at the sound of cannon fire, and he bellowed his animosity toward the ruins of Alerian soldiers below.

Those who had remained now lay dormant, and they from an impossible number of wounds. Hollowed eyes stared skyward, eternally beseeching the gods for freedom. In a sick way, the Dragon fire that had torn through them had granted some measure of solace to the routed force.

Torix narrowed his gaze on the pile of corpses. "Offer silence to those lost," he rasped, barely above a whisper. "Take their burdens unto yourselves, my brothers."

Furs and leather stopped away from dark flesh, baring their naked chests to the frigid air of Eiskalt. Hardened by battle, not one of the Outriders dared to shiver. Humility rippled through them at the scene beyond, cannon fire bursting and a dragon in the skies, but their attentions remained below.

The Fallen were their duty. The Priesthood of Ruin were dedicated to this task, offering rest eternal to those who fell in battle. In a wicked way, Stahl gate had become their holy ground. Silent prayer for the fallen, both ally and enemy, washed through the ranks. Steel blades flashed across nude flesh, dark blood spilled from freshly opened wounds. Cries of anguish gasped from the Outriders at their self-mutilation.

Torix dragged the tomahawk in a long line across his chest. Blood spewed forth from the wound and the cold air set it to stinging, but his lips remained tight. His blood painted on the weapon glittered with inhuman ecstasy, as though the weapon relished his sacrifice. "I swear upon Gorehound," he held the mighty tomahawk aloft, it's given name falling on the collective ears of both mourners and fallen, "this enemy will fall."

The Drakengard began to fall back in the distance as the front line broke to regroup with the main force. The truly Pyrrhic victory was not lost on Torix; the young strategist had anticipated such loss, so he had sent a small force to dampen the blow. It was a waste of lives, yet it had ultimately saved them from being overwhelmed.

"He could not have known," the High Priest muttered. It hardly seemed a miracle, though Torix knew what he had witnessed. "Move to the far side of the island," he called to his men, "we'll descend upon the encampment during the night." Whipping the reins of Scar, he led the movement with violent tenacity.

Scalebacks screamed as they were reigned in, and the riders hastened their mounts through the northern barrier mountains. The day would go quickly, if the bloodshed were any indicator.

Hawk's Nest

"Continue suppression!" Cordian voice screamed out above the gunfire. The cannons added some peace to his mind, but his duty came first. The weapon in his hand remained idle, though the shot in its belly coursed with a desire to be used. Cordian could feel it; the compound was a volatile one, and it exuded a strange energy. He had been the only one cleared to use it.

Taking a breath, he brought the radio to his lips and began to relay the happenings back to Tobias in the command tent. It would not be long now before the opposing force began to see this threat as dangerous. If they had more Dragons, they would be loosed soon enough.


Suppressing fire continues on the Valakut.

Command Tent, 13:00

Tobias listened to Cordian's account, then briefly relayed the order to continue as planned. As he placed the radio down, he looked back to Camille. "Eiskalt will be painted red, you know," she sounded almost torn. "War was never what we intended."

"But was is what we got," he stated grimly. There was nothing about this that he liked. Titanium was not worth losing lives over, and he had not expected to lose so many on a single deception. The intention had been to deter further conflict and quell derision between Eiskalt and the Order. This force was unexpected. Drakengard opposition meant the Ixians were likely involved. To go to such lengths to prevent Lye from gaining a foothold in such an inconsequential place...

"I need to know the truth," he sighed, and Camille shot upright, alarmed. "I need to know why they defy Lye. What is that bastard hiding?" It was true that he did not trust the enigmatic man from the beginning, but this entire scenario smacked of something wrong. He would press forward undaunted, but only because he never started something he would not finish.

"What are you on about?" Camille looked absolutely incredulous. "Do you question this war that you've lost soldiers in?"

"Woman, I question any war, especially one that I have lost men in," he spat back, and he turned away. "I will wage it, but gods damn it, I will not enjoy it." He pointed for the flap that served as both entrance and exit. "Leave me," he commanded sternly. "Send Commander Ormand in when you find him." Sulking, Camille left without another word.

Tobias was not pleased.

[Ozoric]

Plains of Stahl

The Wyvern Riders felt the stare of their enemy for a few minutes. Tails whipped in spite. Cautious riders, on the brink of madness turned to look over their shoulders. Smiles, cocksure and fancy free sold their intent to the frozen tundra below. Though they numbered fourteen now, they were not free of the burden of war.

Cold gales shrouded their wingtips. Claws, acting as forward limbs scrabbled through the all-too-bright afternoon light. In an arrow formation pointed to the capital, they lured away the outriders at the behest of common sense and decency. Shots fired feebly into the sky, aimed at wings but piercing only wind. Fell cries spread out across Eiskalt, frozen and torrid like the snow that christened the war torn land.

Cannon Outpost, Stahl Mountains

A dragon’s death forms cracks in heaven itself. Thayne and demons alike gather in the divide between worlds, weeping for the children of Hromagh. At the apex of the dragon’s life, they prayed in silence. Runes formed about their bodies, scintillating with the passion of ages and the fortunes lost by the thunder lizards.

Caledon Yrain, youngest of the Valakut came to the Drakengard fifteen years ago. His crime was murder: his wife, driving him to anger and rage irreprehensible. In three years, he found himself a nervous lancer, much like Ozoric, and soon to be bonded with a dragon. That dragon, struck dead by a lead blast from the cannonade slipped from his grasp in body and soul.

When a dragoon bonded with a rider, the symbiotic nature lead to one inevitable end. A dragon died, so too did the rider. A rider died, the dragon either perished through sorrow or became so enraged as to become a tormented demon in scale and flesh. As Caledon fell lifeless from his saddle, the dragon Aisha felt that sudden pang of emotionless rage. Loss. Labour loved.

“Caledon.” The voice was deep and fearful. It penetrated the uproar of the wind, and the cannon shot, and the cries of lesser men. Everyone who set sights on the great beast aloft in the pallid skies heard that same sorrow and pledge of grief.

The Valakut, sensing the loss of their companion veered south to flee. Aisha, with wing beat pummelling the fabric of reality itself leered about. She faced the cannon fire head on. Scales, horns, and claws glistened with blood, sweat, and tears. Immense in size, when she dove forwards towards the position of the artillery there was nought on Althanas, heaven, or the many hells that could allay her.

Free of the burden of battle for now the remaining Valakut made full speed to the capital. They would reunite their prowess with the throng of the Drakengard collective. Aisha, serving as the first martyr of the war let out one capitulating sound. A cry, like any other. Pushed into realms of rebirth, ruin, and recklessness. A gout of fire. Sun’s daughter cometh.

[Tobias Stalt]

Northern Artillery Outpost, object of Draconic Ire.

Barnaby Winthrop had been with the 908th for only five years. Life had thrown him several unfair situations that had led to his enlistment, not the least of which had been the lost of his dear wife. Alisha had been forbidden fruit; love between an Elf and a Dwarf was beyond forbidden in the eyes of both races, and the condemnation that had resulted drove an ever present wedge between them.

In spite of the strains surrounding their marriage, Barnaby had believed them happy. It was the memory of Alisha that drove him into artillery, the burning desire to see anything and everything before him brought to ruin. The dark haired Dwarf stared into the vile flames of his enemy as the Dragon dove toward him. His gaze was focused, unrelenting.

"I'm coming, Alisha," he said as his eyes teared up from heat as the flames came closer. The frigid nature of Eiskalt was abolished as hell made manifest converged on the Alerian mechanism. Winthrop manned his cannon, the grim sense of duty driving him beyond fear of being cooked. He would take the bitch with him.

No one would remember Barnaby Winthrop.

The awful sound of titanium ammunition exploded forward as Barnaby screamed his defiance to the heavens. It was the last hope of a lost man that his deeds would bring a fruitful future to Alerar. He kept the powerful weapon steady, aimed toward the destructive force of nature that sought to lay claim to his life.

Flames wreathed the cannon and twisted it into uselessness, even as Barnaby writhed in agony. The breath of a Dragon consumed his form, still clinging desperately to the weapon he had come to love. Eiskalt's freezing wind whispered over his charred ruin.

It sounded almost like a weeping woman.

Attempted Infiltration of the Drakengard Encampment, 13:50

Cut managed to look harmless as he stepped out from the meager Caravan that came to offer kindness to the Drakengard. A gentle voice called out to one of the gruff guards, "we come bearing what thanks we can for your defense of our nation," she said with complete honesty, unaware of the evils that had laid claim to the harvest. "We hope you can accept this, as we have little else to offer you."

Throatcutter glanced about thoughtfully, and took in the lay of the camp. It was the first time he had ever come so far behind enemy lines, and rather than anxious, he was fascinated. They had almost Spartan designs, nothing remained that could not be used. If he had learned to do battle from a force like this, he may have never needed to learn subtlety.

It was almost a shame to allow this evil plan any sort of indulgence.

He scratched at an itch, snorted his discontent, and waited for the all clear to unload. It would not be as easy as he first hoped; the Wyvern brigade was retreating back in the distance, he saw. High above, the Dragons had begun to circle back, but one had broken off. It seemed intent on flying to its death. "I'll be damned," he spoke breathlessly, watching the terrifying scene unfold in the distance. "That beast's gone mad."

Hawk's Nest, 13:50

"Hold fire," Cordian called as the Dragons broke and began to fall back. The feeling in his gut was uncertainty, and he did not enjoy it. The elves, men and dwarves who shouldered their weapons and turned to face him echoed his wariness. "It will not be so easy the second time," he warned them. "We may need to relocate. It would be dangerous to remain in one position for a second encounter."

There came a murmur of assent, and Cordian nodded. "Pick up and march east," he told the Sniper corps, "we will advance further into enemy territory and perform reconnaissance."

The young man slung his rifle over his back and sighed. One dragon for so many men lost seemed like an extreme payout. In the end, however, even one dragon was a victory more than most men could claim. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he glanced sidelong at its owner. "Talin," he said softly, "we've lost enough men for one day."

The elf, white haired and kind faced despite his dark skin, laughed. "My brother would argue that war can never be slaked. It's thirst is all encompassing." The elf broke free of Cordian's gaze. "I wonder what Torix is doing now. I worry for him, so engulfed as his is by that cult."

"Your brother is a dedicated man," Cordian reminded his friend. "His beliefs aside, he will not die easily."

"He is still mortal," Talin said. Cordian did not argue.

[Ozoric]

Eiskalt's Capital, 2pm

Eiskalt’s capital, despite the war beleaguering its lands beyond the walls was a glistening beacon of hope. From on high, Ozoric admired the buttressed of the fortress walls and the market colonnades that run east to west through the residential quarter. Green trees, pine and sycamore danced in the snow; white spots on jade green flora. The wyvern rider pointed downward at one such street. Ozoric patted the man’s pauldron in acknowledgement.

The wind whipped his hair back and made him squint. Forceful gales and thermals dire spiralled around the nimble beast as it descended like a bolt of lightning. At the last, it swerved up, beat its wings and landed softly on the iced flagstones. Feeling himself throwing up, Ozoric jettisoned heat from his feet and cleared the wyvern by a hundred yards. He landed. He bent forwards. He threw up.

“Some son of a god you are!” the wyvern rider guffawed. The sound of metal scraping together echoed through the quiet inner city as he dismounted. War had taken the troops away elsewhere.

“F—k off!” Ozoric grumbled through wine bile and bread gobbets. Sleeve served as napkin. Composure swift regained. “Get to the headquarters and tell the garrison the plan is in motion.” He rose and straightened his attire. “I will find Captain Aelfric and reposition our troops behind the gates as instructed.”

They nodded at one another. Ozoric broke into a run and set his sights on the distant towers where the generals convened.

Abandoned Drakengard Camp

Cut may have noticed the camp festooned with opportunity, but there was something distinctly missing that should have been present: the men of the Drakengard. Smoke trailed up from fire pits. Wild dogs snuffled through discarded waste and carcass remains.

The figures the caravan riders had spoken to were scarecrows: crosses of wood adorned with a helmet from the fallen Alerar soldiers. Jackets made of flayed cloth and potato sacks. Only when they came into the camp proper did they realise their mistake. The Drakengard had retreated in body and soul, leaving nothing but a great draconic corpse in the centre of the wilds.

A wing beat alerted Cut to one straggler. A dragon, from the sound of it, and one, which was no mere wyvern or fresh-hatched horning. It broke through the tree line. Its tail smashed through branches festooned with over ripe fruit. It landed over the fire pit in all its monstrous majesty. Atop its back, a great harness big enough for two waif like figures to stand defiant of their ‘enemy’.

“We thank you,” they spoke together. “There is no-one here however to take your thanks.”

The dragon leered down at the group. Eyes like molten lava. Eternally vengeful. Ever enraged. The scales on its back were jet black. Its belly pure silver. Though smaller than the Valakut, this was a creature of devious intelligence and cunning. A scent of magic lashed out from its nostrils, smothering the caravan with the aroma of sulphur, lavender, and death.

“Leave.” The dragon spoke. Its voice ruptured time itself.

[Tobias Stalt]

Abandoned Drakengard camp.

The younger girls looked absolutely despondent. It was like a dream to see a Dragon so close, yet they had been robbed of the opportunity to thank their saviors. They were torn between the desire to cry or to curse. It had been their secret hope to make husbands in the Coronian group, then they could be spirited away from the frigid wastes of Eiskalt.

No such luck would be theirs.

At the mental growl of the Dragon, Cut winced. There was a hate in the voice unnatural, even for a man in the throes of war. He attributed the rage to the loss of a rider or something of that magnitude, but he could not shake the feeling that it was directed toward him. He was the last to turn back dejected, staring long at the beast and its twin riders not in contempt, but in awe.

"In another life," he muttered, "I might have ridden a dragon."

He wasted no time on imagination, knowing that to linger was extremely risky. He offered a smile to the woman at the Dragon's back, sickly though she was. It occurred to him that beauty was a matter of perception; there on wings of a Dragon, that girl was free to roam, and free of the sociological norm. Her beauty was beyond physical constraints.

Throatcutter was an aficionado of fine women, but a Dragon rider may have been the finest of forbidden fruit. If only, he lamented, she were a friend. "Sorry for troubling you," he said in earnest before turning away. The boy began to wonder if he were more interested in riding the Dragon or its rider.

Shouldering the burden of poisoned sacrament and its redistribution, Cut consoled the younger women with deft hands to the back and a quick, kind tongue. The words rambled into the wind, but the eclectic dragon riders may have caught the beginnings of the conversation. "So, what say you ladies give me a tour of the forbidden mountains, eh?"

The giggle fit that ensued, however, was heard by all.

Gates of the Castle, 14:00

The alarms had sounded, and all the citizenry who had not refused to abandon their homes were shepherded into the main fortress for protection. Tits looked every bit the damsel in distress, evinced by the ease with which the guards allowed her through the gate. She had not been appreciative of the grope and smack her arse had been subjected to, but she did not seem to protest.

The presence of the Drakengard presented the largest problem for Prospero Company. Stalt had not anticipated them to fall back to the castle and hold themselves up there, Sasha reflected. The sight of Bleeder and his lot moving like frail and aged men into the city made her want to laugh, but she stifled the urge. Cut was nowhere to be seen, but she knew better than to worry. The Salvic bastard was cunning, if not vile.

They elected to avoid open engagement with any of the opposing force, instead dispersing toward the fortifications they were herded toward like cattle. The small grade explosives tucked into her bosom had drawn no attention, much to Sasha's surprise. Everyone seemed to be drawn to the masses at her chest, and the fact that they had gone unnoticed almost pleased her.

Maybe men of Eiskalt were less foul than Alerian scum?

She made for a window to look out over the plains, and Sasha sucked in a ragged breath. Desolation had crept into the nation that had been peaceful not a day before. War had never been a love of hers, but this seemed so wrong. "I've got to piss," she mumbled dumbly, and she shook off the sick feeling in her stomach.

"Easy now," Bleeder whispered in her ear. "You should have a care, miss. Too many eyes here for pissing."

Sasha scowled, but remained silent.

Northern Barrier Mountains, ~16:00.

The Drakengard had all but abandoned their encampment. Cordian stared through his telescope at the burnt out ruin they left in their wake, and he smirked. "Resourceful enemy," he spat, and he lifted the radio to his lips. "Stalt, they have abandoned forward positions. All arms have moved to the castle to stage a defensive."

"Siege combat is useless against Dragons," came the reply. "It's a fucking trap. Don't you get sucked into that." Cordian grimaced, but Stalt continued. "I'm sorry, Saville. This is... it feels wrong to me. This entire war. I can't countenance the deaths of civilians and innocents."

"Buck up, boy-o," came the Sniper's response, "don't let your men hear you dissembling. Fuckall, I can't fathom why Valius hasn't relieved you of duty, Stalt. You sound positively broken. Like you're going to tuck tail and run, see?"

"N-no," the stammered reply did nothing to convince Cordian, but the sharpshooter relented. "I'm fine, Cordian. Just a bit overwhelmed. I never expected... any of this."

"It's war, Tobias," Cordian was much softer this time as he offered his condolences in spirit. "And we Alerians do it better than anyone. You're a genius strategist, mate, and you've saved more men from terrible fates than I care to think of. But you need to keep your head in the game."

"I'm a war criminal, Cordian," the Ranger was stunned by the blatant defeat in the youth's voice, "but I won't abandon you all to a fate I cast you into. I will see this through until the bitter end."

"Aye," Cordian spoke softly as he lowered the radio and pocketed it. "Bitter is an apt word for what's to come."

The Sniper Corps made brilliant time along the rugged terrain, masked from prying eyes by mountains. Cordian remained toward the peaks in order to keep updates to command, but the rest of the group stayed to the ground. It would not be long before they had crossed to the eastern end of Eiskalt.

[Ozoric]

Eiskalt Capital, 5pm

The city soon came to life after the dragons descended. They played their part in lifting spirits. Moral skyrocketed. Foresight delivered by age-old tradition. Whatever role they were to play in the war beyond this day Ozoric knew not: he had been successful. By morning, hell would come prepared to their door, and they would answer in kind.

“You did it!” Aelfric bellowed. The slap delivered to the boy’s back once knocked him flying; now, he held steadfast and took the praise in his stride. “Knight-Commander Jacamar is very pleased.” Ozoric watched the Valakut begin to dismount with a neutral stare.

“Who-”

Before he could question further Aelfric hoisted him onto his shoulder. His pauldron big enough to serve as makeshift palanquin. He waltzed him promptly to the opal gates of Eiskalt’s citadel. The people that came to welcome them threw streamers and confetti, of actual petals, in their wake.

The city took a turn for the worse in their absence. Reports had come in from across the island - sabotage, murder, cold-blooded acts festooning the mind with doubt and fear. Nausea was rife in homemakers. Nightmares nuanced in the mind-sets of the city’s children.

Ozoric examined face and facet. He tried to pry beyond worried expressions. Red, yellow, and green streams of paper dashed across a sullen expression here, a look of force glee there. The lancer could not help but feel distraught. Here he was, celebrating, a victory that would perhaps cost the people more than the pragmatic few who ‘fought bravely’ in their name.

“Aelfric I order you to stop.” His command went unheard.

“Thank you, thank you!” one excessively encouraged elderly man exclaimed. He practically fell at their knees, only driving the dagger of guilt deeper into Ozoric’s shoulder.

“Aelfric!” he roared. With strength he did not know he had he leapt from his gluttonous pedestal. His boots softened his landing with plumes of thermal, and he ran to the man’s side. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

There was a single, undulating scream from the crowd. A head vanished beneath the teeming ocean of the spectacle, and then another.

“He’s been stabbed,” the guard helped. “Look.” He pointed a titanic finger at the man’s stomach. “Everybody get off the streets. Get indoors. Get to safety!”

Aelfric had no desire to commence a chase through the unfamiliar streets. If the attacker sought to draw out the Drakengard and their kin, then they would think themselves victorious and stay put to fight. If they were merely an opportunist villain in the service of tyrants, then they would fade…if only for a while. Come dawn, there would be no use for such actions here.

Ozoric Newalla knelt at the knee to help the man to rest. A devout believer in fate, and practiced in strategy, knowledge, and politics, the lancer was helpless to do anything to save the man’s life. He was even less helpful to ease his pain.

“I am sorry. This is my fault.” Aelfric raised an eyebrow. “Did you see who did this? So that we may avenge thee, pray tell!” His common was rigid, but it served its pious purpose.

"The Cult," the man gibbered.

A headshake. A gurgle. A rush of blood to the head let down by arteries severed and body failing.

“Anything…I,” he wiped his cheek. Mumbling, he set the man down. “Aelfric…stop them.”

“How do I stop them?” the captain enquired. The sun on his back was forcing his senses to focus. The juxtaposition between the cold of the plains and the glamour of the city was putting the man ill at ease without bringing murder into the picture.

Ozoric rose. He wiped his cheeks. He turned to the citadel.

“When they come to the gates they will know the true might of a dragon,” he snarled. If the Order resorted to such petty tricks and subterfuge again, then even Chalazae, goddess of dragons would seem meek in comparison to the half-dragon son.

Before Aelfric could stop him, the boy was off. The crowd was still dispersing, cries reckless in the sky and bedlam abound. The captain unsheathed a dagger. It would be easier to conceal than the sword that could slay mountains on his back. He examined the street. Only a body, blood, and betrayal reminded him that every victory had its price.

[Tobias Stalt]

Eiskalt Capital, amidst the throes of jubilation.

Bleeder watched the panic that rippled through the people of Eiskalt with no emotion. He stood guard over the frantic form of Sasha, who fumbled with the second of four explosive devices that were to be set off within the capital's walls. "Careful, Tits," he warned. "There's something amiss."

"Fuck," she spat as her hands moved meticulously over metal. "I don't have time for this."

A guard nearby watched them in silence. The body beneath his armor was bloated, eyes bugged as though he had seen a ghost. Words were impossible for the pathetic man, frothing spittle seeping from his lips. Blood spewed from his eyelids and nostrils, and when Bleeder glanced at him, the old man blinked. "The poison," he murmured breathlessly. "Looks like we're in for a much more beautiful show."

Sasha rose from her toil with a disgusted look, the disgust evident on her features. "Is that the stuff you all put in the food supply?" She sounded incredulous. "You fuckers are sick," she shuddered, repulsed. The weapon was small enough to go unnoticed, and Sasha had tucked it under a small opening in one of the walkway walls. Tinkering with her brasserie, she watched as the agonized guard fell over and profuse fits of vomit cascaded from his lips. Pain rasped from him, evidence of his inability to cry out.

"He won't have been the only one afflicted," Bleeder whispered knowingly, taking Sasha by the arm. "Let's hurry. We stand out like fire in a forest." The elder member of Prospero guided her quickly through the hallways, every which way he could toward a proper hiding spot. Not knowing where to go, he glanced out a window at the scene unfolding below.

The Drakengard had holed themselves up within the castle, probably intent on forcing the enemy army into a siege. "This commander has no idea," he muttered, his grim humor had taken the better of him. "This army doesn't realize that they've been trapped in a huge cluster fuck."

In the streets, disarray had erupted. Blood and bile poured from frantic mouths as they clawed at walls and each other, and desperation ripped through them like a scythe through grain. Bloated and mangled bodies dropped, and writhed in agony and terror, screams dying in gargled, pitiful squeaks. One woman clawed at her throat, tore shreds of flesh away in futile attempt to be free of the strangling toxin.

Those who remained unaffected by the poison drew close to the Drakengard in horror, their feet rooted to the street. The acrid stench of foulness and death wafted through the street. Bleeder let out a laugh. "If there were an award for genocide..."

Command Tent, 19:00 (Sunset)

At the final report from Cordian, Tobias threw down the transceiver. "No!" he screamed. "We won't be forced into a damned trap. I will not march the full power of an army to its death." Valius sat, hands folded thoughtfully, and leered at Tobias. The elder elf elected to remain silent through the outburst. "It's too much," Tobias said, "too many people are going to be killed. Not all of them enemies."

"There are no evils in war, Stalt," Valius stated flatly. "You have saved hundreds of Alerian lives at the cost of only a few. While I detest giving you praise in light of my lost men," the dark eyed elf narrowed his gaze, "you will have brought compliance to a nation in defiance of Alerar. Yours is a contribution the Guilds will not bat a blind eye toward. The rewards will be handsome."

"Bury your damn rewards," Tobias hissed. "I've done enough. Eiskalt will be reduced to a barren waste, but you'll have your damn titanium veins. I hope they make up for what you all lack in souls."

Valius stood upright, his lips tight. "You have no backbone," the larger man scathingly retorted. "How can you call yourself a soldier of Alerar?"

"I cannot," Tobias defied Valius, and he ripped the patch from his arm that denoted his rank. Valius Ormand drew his blade immediately. "And I will not hesitate to face the enemy myself to accept punishment for these deeds. You've been used, Valius. All of us have. Can't you see? Why would another nation send an army to defend Eiskalt? There is more going on than-"

"Enough!" Valius took a step toward Tobias, dared him to continue to speak. The large, obsidian blade touched the youth's neck. "I hereby strip you of all duties and command of the 908th division," he recited dutifully, "it is for your contribution alone that I will not strike you down here."

Tobias remained silent, and he did not look down to the blade at his throat.

"Go and see if the enemy is as forgiving," Ormand snarled, and he pointed to the tent flap. The large elf turned his back to Tobias and assumed the burden of command without a second thought.

Tobias slid out into the biting cold of Eiskalt, and Camille rushed to him. "What are you doing?" She asked, and he knew she had heard everything. The disgust in her eyes was clear, and her desire to chastise him waited on the edge of her dagger tongue. "Are you going to desert? After all we have offered you?"

"Just who do you work for?" Tobias asked the question, baring his steel and pointing the tip toward her. Camille looked stunned, as though she had been slapped in the face. "Not the people of Alerar, I know that. This whole debacle stinks of something malignant festering beneath the surface. And you seem all too eager to burn as many bridges as you can."

"Tobias," her voice sounded sad, but he cut her off with a hand.

"Spare me your theatrics," he waved her off, then he headed for the Stahl gate. "Your war has been won with a hollow victory," he called back over his shoulder. "Soon enough, there will be nothing left for the Drakengard to defend. Whether or not they leave it at that is up to them. I hope they burn every last Alerian to the ground."

The sword slammed back into his sheath, and Tobias left Camille speechless in the sand. By dawn, he would approach the castle on foot. Hopefully it would still be standing.

Overlooking Eiskalt Castle

"Cordian." The voice was deep, and decidedly not Tobias. The Sniper blinked and took hold of his radio transceiver.

"Yes?" He answered rather dumbly.

"Stalt has abandoned his post," the words that echoed through stunned Saville, but he would nodded and waited for Ormand to continue. "I will be assuming command. I have your first order."

"Go on."

"Stalt will be approaching the capital by foot," Valius informed the Ranger. "Kill him."

The radio clattered along the rocky floor for a moment after Cordian took in the words. He had been certain himself of Stalt's inability to command, but to kill the boy? Saville glanced down to the sniper corps below, thankful none of them had heard the command. The burden fell on him alone.

"Cordian?" Ormand sounded impatient.

The blonde haired man stooped and lifted the radio to his lips. "Aye, sir. Saville out."

[Ozoric]

Eiskalt Castle, 11:00pm

In brackets, chordate flickered in crimson flame. Dancing nuances of chemistry and science kept the corridors of the castle from darkness throng. Ozoric walked them idly, pacing back and forth through the catacombs as though they were home from home. As days went, this was a marked passing of time. He would remember it; he would be foolish to forget. Lessons learned in such a horrid manner made a man a giant.

By sun’s call, the Ixian Knights garrisoned in the castle felt reinvigorated. Plans were afoot. Possibilities probed. Arms were prepared; this was the true start of the war. A boot on a step, worn through the ages began the lancer on an ascent upwards to the castle proper. He left the dead kings, queens, and concubines of Eiskalt behind to their eternal sleep. His thoughts remained with them, aloof.

“I swear public face is a misnomer,” he commented. Only the sprites of the torchlight heard him. Invisible ears pricked to the discontent of a tired soul.

Odes sung in feasting halls for the fallen Valakut. Aislinn, a white ‘witch’ of power untold had spent much of the evening in the carnal house. She undid the poison as best she could. Countless tied despite such efforts. Aelfric did not attempt to rest. He ate nothing. He spoke nothing. He worried not. Not a whisper heard throughout the courtyard, only footsteps. The stich of a needle broke the silence proper, every tear of cloth and skin a stitch in time.

“Ozoric?” cried a voice. He hoped that it was someone above, spying out the ‘strategist’ for the final briefing. “Ozoric!”

Wearing simple slacks and a white tunic, the youth appeared at the top of the stairway leading into the castle’s proving ground. On the far side of the paved square, Captain Aelfric towered. He held a sword in one hand and shield in the other. Ozoric balked at the thought of training at this hour, but there his mentor was calling him to arms.

“You did many great things today boy.” Aelfric advanced. His armour, like dragon scales on diamond bones clanked. “That is no reason for you to be lax in your duties.”

Ozoric took that to mean sleep was not his reward for success. Escape called to him. A leap, aloft the rooftops slate and battlements granite. It would be all too easy, but to no avail. Aelfric had the knack to find the boy wherever he ran. As punishment, he would make him train thrice as hard.

“Can I not pay my respects for the dead that died in freedom’s name?” In moonlight’s array he fought back. The three hundred feet twixt them became a hundred, fifty, ten, and two. “The catacombs beneath the castle are as winding and wild as the Drakengard’s eldest of aviaries. It is quite reflective to walk amongst the colonnades and crypts.”

Scrupulous examination was not Aelfric’s preferred activity but he did so now. His grimace softened. A smile. His skin oily from strain and his beard bushy from abandonment he took on the tired façade of a man on edge. He held the sword arm’s length from the shield and bade the boy take it.

“Wise, perhaps. Foolish, most certainly. When they come to our gates I expect you to be ready, dragon or none.” Ozoric took his own sword with thanks, as though he needed to earn the right to wield the blade brought with his own blood, sweat, and tears. “We shall play three and one. When thrice a victory comes your way, then so too shall sleep.”

Cold pangs of regret clawed at Ozoric’s skin. Goosebumps: warning system forced his hand. He clashed blade against dragon painted red on treated oak. Aelfric smiled. The smile swift turned sour, a snarl of battle born of broken dreams. A motley chorus of steel, step, and staccato beat filled the night sky. A moon behind streaks of portent clouds shed ill light on proceedings. The thought of sickness, sorrow, and sadness heavy on their minds was soon sautéed from flesh by an exchange of blows.

In that precious moment, Ozoric Newalla made a pledge. The Drakengard had agreed to do anything to save Eiskalt. He would deliver the people, what remained of them at least, from barbaric and brutish bastards. In his mind, he soothed his tortured soul. In his heart, he found room to let dragon’s blood beat. In his sword hand, singing scintillating songs of scorn: vengeance.

[Tobias Stalt]

Epilogue

Listen now to the old tale,
rusted echoes through a beaten hall
and withered words on pages torn,
tarnished yellow by an age now gone.

Dreams destined to die
linger on in the children,
left behind by broken fathers
to whom the tears gave no solace.

A lifetime of nothings
scrawled out for the world
to scorn.
And to forget.

-T. Mikrut

Dusk had swallowed the world.

No stars shined over the killing fields as Tobias trudged through them. Only the festive flames from Eiskalt's capital marked a destination for the tired strategist to reach. Smoke pillars plumed from homes set to flame, and crops that had withered swept their stench over him. The boy bit back nausea, and forced back tears. "What have I wrought?"

There were no blasts above, nor a world beyond this ruin. For Tobias, this was the culmination of every deed. Every decision he had ever made led to this moment, and he was not proud. Ahead stood the castle, the last bastion of life in Eiskalt. Even that was not sacred.

Somewhere in the mountains, the clang of metal and footsteps echoed. Tobias knew what was to come. By dawn, the battlements would be changed, new positions and tactics shifted to upset the careful plans of the enemy. Torix, Cordian and the Princeps would have coordinated their horrific strike, and the defiance of Eiskalt and her defenders would end.

His own end would come quickly thereafter.

Each step was an eternity. The climb over Stahl gate's ruin had left him bereft of strength, but he forced his march. Tattered fabric made up his uniform, and grime had mixed with dirt to sully his face. Every breath was a battle. The roar of a Dragon in the distance drew his interest, but the hope of a quick, merciful death faded as quickly as it had come.

His fate was to be a sullen, tragic death suited for a traitor.

Fresh snow had fallen over the blood, and the marsh beneath his feet clung to him as he went. The taint of his deeds stuck to him, and it became his heraldry. Splashed by the blood of men, of dwarves, of elves, and of wyverns, Tobias was painted in chaos.

Night was a joyous respite behind those walls; Tobias heard the sounds of merriment faintly as he approached, and he supposed it was the mask of lies a defeated force might wear for the condemned. One last promise of hope dosed to the masses, just before the light was snuffed forever.

His shaky hands bombarded the gate, heavy with the burdens he bore. The creak of wooden knocks broke through the streets, where burned the bodies of the poisoned dead. The sight of Dragons as he was ushered in drew all of Tobias' attentions. "This way," came a male voice, "hurry now. They could strike at any time."

It had been a ruse, a light hearted festival to allay the fears of the damned. Tobias had known it, but to hear it broke his heart. "They're all going to die," he shook, terror stricken by the gravity of it all. "I've damned them all."

As he was practically dragged through the street, Tobias stared skyward, his hollowed eyes sought forgiveness. In the conflagration, he found naught but hatred and suffering. "We will stave off the coming assault, though it may cost our lives," the man assured him, and Tobias noticed the insignia of the Drakengard on his arm.

"Take me to your commanding officer," Tobias gazed toward the man, and the other soldier stopped to stare down at him. "My name is Tobias Stalt," he said. "Tactical officer, 908th Division. I am responsible for the Assault on Eiskalt."

The taller man blinked, then he laughed. "And I'm the Emperor himself," he spat. "Alright then," he shook his head. "To Jacamar with you. We'll see what she has to say about all this."

A pyre burned in the heart of Eiskalt. As the night dragged on, it waned. At sunrise, it faded away.

As dawn broke, the drums of war beat anew.


I'd like to request hide and scales from the slain Ancient Dragon as spoils.

[Silence Sei]

This thread....just wow. You two did an incredible job with each of your characters. In the end, it literally came down to whose ending I enjoyed more, because the two of you were pretty blow-for-blow on this one. Wherever Ozoric lacked, he made up for in another area, likewise with Toby. Here we go.




Toby
Ozoric


Story
8
8


Setting
7
8


Pacing
8
7


Communication
8
9


Action
8
7[/t]


[td]Persona
7
8


Mechanics
9
9


Clarity
8
7


Technique
7
8


Wildcard
7
7

Total
Total
77/100
78/100



Ozoric Advances!

As far as Exp goes, I'm going to talk to someone in the mod forums about correctly distributing the EXP for here and the Ice Reaver. However, that being said...

Toby, your spoils must go through the RoG to be approved, but otherwise I have no problem with them

Ozoric, this thread owes you 300 GP for such a stellar performance.

[Silence Sei]

938 XP for Ozoric

225 XP for Tobi.

[Lye]

EXP Added, Awaiting RoG for Spoils and GP.